


the demons around you

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: dropofrum sampler [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL THE GODDAMN CLUES, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bechdel Test Pass, Blanket Permission, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, IT'S FINALLY COMPLETE, Playlist linked in end notes!, Pre-Series, R plus L equals J, in which catelyn tully stark isn't totally fucking clueless okay, look the lengths to which i'll go to get these two to fuck, praise the seven, she finds all the clues, they're frankly ridiculous my dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2018-12-25 12:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: When Jon came back for her, he came withdragons.Dragons, and an army, and the promise of a crown, but all Sansa had ever wanted was him.(Or, the one in which Jon Snow knows his heritage, and the day Lord Stark betroths Sansa to JoffreyfuckingBaratheon, he packs his things and travels to the other end of the world. The other end of the world turns out to be Astapor.Astapor, and Daenerys Stormborn.)





	1. fear for my life

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [time's been kind to you, my love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548318) by [Dialux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux). 



> look, my guys, this isn't beta read. if you'd like to volunteer, my email and tumblr are linked in the end notes.

Robb had the Tully look about him, even with his Father's dark hair. Blue eyed, her first babe was, and as he grew older, with sharp cheekbones, and long lashes, and a generous, dimpled smile. 

And Catelyn didn't think of it then. 

Sansa followed her brother, and she was nearly the very image of Cat at that age, bright, fiery hair, impossibly blue eyes, a pink little rosebud of a smile. 

And still, the truth eluded Cat. 

But then came Arya, bearing the stamp of her Stark blood, dark hair, dark eyes, a sullen, brooding mouth. Bran and Rickon followed in quick succession, as dark as their sister, and then, and only then, did Cat notice Jon. 

Certainly, he looked like a Stark. The hair, the jaw, the dramatic, dark gaze that Ned would pretend not to affect. In Cat's private, silliest moments, she rather thought her honorable, dashing Lord husband looked rather like a pirate. 

But Jon had pale eyes, almost grey in the cold light of Winterfell. It was only when the sun hit him just right, that they revealed their true color - an impossible, long-forgotten violet. Cat had noticed his eyes a hundred times as he'd grown, filling out the promise of his broad shoulders, the full lips that must come from his mother, the blade of his nose that certainly came from Ned. She catalogued each of his features away, next to Robb's, anger and resentment unfurling in her gut that this bastard boy looked more like Ned's son than the heir to Winterfell. 

Until they were eleven, in the yard, and Robb and Jon joined swords against each other. They used practice swords that day, with the edges blunted, but the sound of metal hitting metal, their grunts as they took hits, the thud of their feet as they moved around each other - it rang through the grounds. Catelyn watched them from the shadows. Watched Jon's balanced, graceful movements, the sharp intensity of his eyes, the way he seemed locked in dance rather than in battle. He rammed his shield into Robb's chest, swung his sword low, ducking Robb's parry, catching the backs of his knees. He spun, rammed his shield again at his shoulder, kicked Robb's sword away. The young lord stumbled to his knees, defenseless, Jon's sword at his throat, staring horrified up at him, at being defeated so easily. 

The clouds parted, a ray of light hit Jon Snow's eyes, and the bastard boy smiled, tossing his sword aside and extending his free hand to Robb. He stood tall, proud, wind throwing back his dark hair, eyes violet in the sunlight; victorious and handsome and, in that moment, noble. 

And Catelyn, who had been at the tourney that fateful year at Harrenhal, remembered another boy with violet eyes, shining with triumph. She remembered him crowning Lyanna Stark, she remembered him falling in love. 

She remembered the beginning of a war. 

* * *

"The boy is a Targaryen."

Ned whips around to look at her, where she lies naked against the furs, sweat matting the hair at the back of her neck, the wetness from their coupling still damp between her legs. The languid sweetness that fills her has loosened her limbs, but her mind hasn't stopped whirring since that afternoon. Ned Stark's nostrils are flared, eyes wide enough to reveal the whites around his pupils, hands stilled at the laces of his jerkin. 

It's his silence that gives him away, and Catelyn thanks the Seven that Ned is a shite liar. It lasts only for a moment, this gratitude, before fear follows painfully on its heels. _A Targaryen. Her husband has been harboring a thrice-damned Targaryen. Amongst their children - gods be good, he has risked the safety of their family, and for this- this- why?!_

"He _is_ ," she accuses lowly, naked and fearful and vibrating with anger. "Don't lie to me, again. He is a Targaryen, isn't he? That boy-" she breaks off, drawing a shaky breath. When she continues, her voice is barely above a whisper. "Rhaegar's boy. You've brought Rhaegar Targaryen's boy to hide amongst _my children-"_

_"-our children,"_ Ned interrupts fiercely. "It was Lyanna's last wish, Cat. I had to bring him home. I knew the risk."

"Did you?" she demands, fingers clenched in the furs, sweat trickling slowly between her breasts, dark red hair cascading down her back, blue eyes wide with fright. "What if Robert finds out? What if the _Lannister_ woman finds out? They'll name us _traitors_! They'll have us executed!"

"They won't find out, Cat," he murmurs urgently, climbing into bed beside her, cupping her tense jaw in his big, warm hand. "No one wi-"

"I did!" she rages at him, without raising her voice. The walls have ears. "If I could-" She breaks away, hands rising to fist at her heart, fear choking her words to silence. 

Ned is quiet, beside her. But they both know what she would have said. _If she could figure out, who else could?_

* * *

Sansa is the only one who remembers.

Arya and Robb never paid attention to anything beyond their own, silly noses, and Bran and Rickon were little for it - but Sansa remembers. She knew there was a time when Mother disliked Jon. She knew there was a time when Jon wasn’t allowed to take meals with the family, wasn’t lectured on dancing and manners and etiquette with Robb. Sansa doesn’t why it changed, or how, but she knows when.

She’d been eight, or maybe nine, only just becoming old enough to want pretty dresses and compliments from handsome boys, old enough to want her hair just right and her curtseys perfect, and for her stomach to go fluttery and breathless when minstrels came to court at Winterfell and sang stories about princesses and dragons and shining knights. 

It had been a busy morning, and Sansa had snuck away from her lessons, creeping along the bustling walkways and praying she could get to the godswoods and while the rest of her day away in the hot pools. 

She heard her mother’s voice, as she crept past the Great Keep’s doorway and her heart burst into panicked frenzy. She was going to be found! She was- oh, Seven help her-

And then she heard an answering voice, and Sansa frowned. _It couldn’t have been…_ Carefully, her heart pounding in her throat, she peeked around the door, and- oh. It really was Jon. Mother had taken to a knee in front of him, a hand on his shoulder, as she spoke to him, her words low and indecipherable. Father stood behind her, a small, soft smile in his eyes, and they were saying something to him - something important, no doubt, because Jon’s mouth was all agape, eyes darting furiously between Mother and Father. 

She saw Father nod once, and Mother’s eyes go soft with warmth. Jon’s shoulders shook painfully, chest going hollow as he bent into himself, hands fisted at his sides. Mother glanced at Lord Stark in alarm, but Father was staring at Jon, pained, mouth pulled in a tight, thin line. He took a knee before her bastard brother too, and then Sansa watched, gaping, as both her parents pulled a sobbing, red-faced Jon into their arms. 

And after that day, everything changed.

* * *


	2. make the devil change his mind

"Why are you so cruel to Arya?"

Sansa's nostrils flared, as she shifted to face Jon, who stood at the door to her chamber, propped up against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest. Her teeth ground together so hard she thought she could've snapped. “ _Me_?" she grits out, barely above a whisper. " _I'm_ cruel to her?"

"She's younger than you, Sa-"  
" _ **So?!**_ " Sansa explodes. "When _**I**_ was her age, I wasn't a brat! I _listened_ to the septa! I listened to mother! I practiced my needlework! Why can't **_she?!_** What makes her so  _special_?!"

Jon sighed, entering her room, and he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her, the mattress sinking down and letting her fall into his side. Her feet dangled over the side. His feet rested solidly on the floor.

"She's not like you," Jon began and Sansa snorted loudly, a sound that would have horrified Septa Mordane. _Arya was obviously nothing like her. Everyone knew that._

Jon chuckled softly and wrapped a heavy, warm arm around her narrow shoulders, tucking her against his hard chest. He smelt like leather and thyme. Sansa snuggled closer.

"We're all different," Jon continued, and his voice rumbled through his chest, against her body. "Bran belongs in the sky, and Rickon will someday likely be a maester, and Robb would've made a fine knight if he hadn't been a lord." He looked down at her, shifting so their eyes could meet. "Someday, you're going to be a very beautiful lady," he said quietly, and smiled when Sansa turned as red as her hair, hiding her face against the soft cotton of his shirt. "And someday, Arya is going to wield a sword better than any of us."

Sansa frowned at that. Swords were _dangerous_. Girls weren't _supposed_ to - and what if Arya got _hurt?_

"We're different, Sansa. That doesn't make us better or worse. Just different."

Sansa sulked. "You want me to apologize to her, don't you?"  
His hand came to stroke her hair. "You called her some very cruel names, love. You, and your friends too."  
"She doesn't _**care!**_ " Sansa protested, even though guilt had begun to swirl uncomfortably in her chest. Arya's eyes had been suspiciously red when she had ran away from the solar. She hadn't _cried_ , had she? Arya _never_ cried. "She'll do what she did today again anyway!"

Jon kept quiet, hand weaving through her hair, his warm, measured breath falling against her skin.

But that didn’t make it alright. Even when she was this angry, Sansa knew that. "Okay," she finally whispered. "I'll say sorry. I'll be nicer to her."

Jon held her tighter then, and pressed a kiss to her crown. His lips were… soft. "There's my girl," he murmured. "I'll talk to Arya too. Alright?"

She nodded against his chest, heart swelling with love and warmth, breathless with him so close. And Sansa thought, if Northmen fought in tourneys, Jon would have made the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms.

She was eleven, then. He was fourteen.

* * *

 

“Jon.”

Jon pushed back his chair, getting up from his desk and opening his chamber’s door wider to let her in. “Lady Stark,” he said respectfully. It was late, and the candles in his room had all been lit, as he pored over the records of payment and delivery of tax and grain to and from Castle Black. Lady Stark had visited his rooms often enough, since that fateful afternoon four years ago. They talked about the children, sometimes, and about the armorers and the smithies and the smallfolk, all of whom felt more comfortable around Jon, than her or Robb. But it was closing midnight, now, and she had never visited quite so late. “Is something wrong?”

Catelyn’s face was drawn, as if in pain, her fingers bloodless in the folds of her gown. Jon frowned, walking up to her, placing a gentle hand on the small of her back, and guiding her to his vacated chair.

“What is it, my lady?” he asked once more, when she was seated and he had propped himself up against the desk.  
Lady Stark looked away from him, then, her fingers knotted white in her lap, and when her shoulders shook, Jon realized with a jolt - she was _crying_. Fear lanced through him, painful and electric, and he didn't even notice the hard thud when his knees hit the ground before her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked urgently, hoarse and roughened, his sword-calloused hands coming to cover hers. “Is it Lord Stark? The children? _Sansa? Ar-"  
_ She bent down towards him. Catelyn’s hand came to his face, trembling just a little, stroking the high point of his cheekbone with her thumb. Her eyes were blue, as blue as Jon sometimes imagined the sea would be, candlelight flickering in them in points of gold. Blue like Robb’s eyes, they were. Blue like Sansa’s. “You are my _son_ ,” she said, with quiet ferocity. “You may not have my blood, and you may not have our name, but you have Stark blood. I _raised_ you. I fed you. I held you through your nightmares. You will _**always**_ be my son."

Jon’s eyes fell, and it was his shoulders that shook painfully now, before he took a deep, stilted breath.  
“You know that,” she said, hand stroking his dark curls, “don’t you?”  
Jon nodded, never meeting her eyes, never saying a word. He wasn’t sure he could hold himself together, if he did.

And then she struck the final, most horrible blow.

"I’m so, so sorry, my dear,” she finally said, grief in every syllable. "Jon Arryn is dead. And the King is coming to Winterfell."

There was a weighted pause, before she continued, saying, "You'll have to-"  
"I know," Jon interrupted hoarsely, not meeting her eyes anymore. "I know."

He was sixteen.

* * *

 

“Go _**away**_!”

“Come on, Arya,” came Jon’s tired voice, muffled through the door. "Let me in.”  
Arya scowled ferociously at the door. “I’m not _talking_ to you! You want to leave Winterfell? Fine! _Go! **Away!”**_

“Well,” Jon sighed. “Alright then. I suppose I’ll have to give this present to someone else.”  
There was a pause. And the door swung open. Jon grinned down at her. “What present?” she demanded, Nymeria panting at her side.

“May I come in?” he asked pointedly, and she stepped aside, eyes widening when he pushed the door closed behind him.

“You’ll have to keep it carefully. Make sure Bran or Rickon or the wolves can’t get to it.”  
Arya’s eyebrows climbed higher and higher. “What is it?” she asked. He made it sound like he was about to gift her a jar of **_wildfire_**. But then Jon unclasped a long, thin scabbard from his sword belt, and unsheathed a thin, silvery rapier.

Arya gasped, hands itching to hold the hilt. “Is it for me? It's so skinny!” she whispered, reverently, watching the candlelight flicker along the blade like liquid fire. He grinned at her, violet eyes crinkling up like Father’s.

“Skinny, like you,” he replied, flipping the sword with practiced ease and handing it to her, hilt-first.  
"You can't take someone's head off with it," he said, watching her admire the sword in the candlelight, "but if you're very quick, you can poke 'em full of holes."

Arya looked up delightedly. "I can be quick!"

Jon laughed, ruffling her hair. "Lesson one," he instructed, a hand on her skinny shoulder, eyes dancing with mirth. "Stick 'em with the pointy end."

* * *

 

 

"Hullo."

Jon comes to sit down next to her, in the spaces between the roots of the heart tree. They are pressed together, side to side, and the air smells like sweet, crimson resin around them.

"Is it true?" Sansa asks, after they've been sitting together for a while, still and warm, surrounded by silence and the sounds of their breathing. "Are you leaving?"

"Yes," he admits.

"For good?" she asks, and Sansa is painfully proud of the way her voice doesn't break, not even a _little_.

"For good."

She stiffens, and begins to rise, saying, " _Fine_ , then. I don't have anything more to say to y-"

His hand clamps around her wrist, tighter than iron shackles and he tugs her down ruthlessly, his jaw tight, the cords in his neck standing out. She chokes off with a gasp, stumbling into his lap, fury burning in her chest.

" _What_ -"

"I _**have**_ to go," he interrupts sharply, eyes blazing. "I don't have a _choice_."

Sansa scoffs, shaking with the effort to not **_hit_** him, scream at him, terrified she'll cry in front of him. "You _don't_ have to go! You have a choice. You _always_ have a choice."

"I don't-"

"You _do_!" she explodes, shoving at his chest, even though his hands are gentle around her waist, tugging her into a loose, warm embrace. He draws her close, and Sansa's trembling, aching, her eyes hot and itchy, a great, big lump in her throat that makes it hard to breathe.

"Choose _**me**_ ," she pleads, and gods, who cares? Who _cares_ if he sees her cry? She would do _anything_ to make him stay. "Choose _me_ , Jon. Stay with _me_."

He doesn't reply, not for a long time, letting her not-cry into his neck, while he strokes her hair, and she feels so terribly young again, curling her hands into the rough cotton of his shirt, breathing in the dark, warm scent of him.

"What are our words?"

Sansa sniffs. "Winter is coming."

"But you are a Tully too, aren't you? Do you know the Tully words?"

She nods against his warm shoulder. "Family. Duty. Honor."

"Family, duty, honor," he repeats. "There is a reason I'm leaving. I'm going to find the rest of my family, Sansa. And my staying here... There are things I can't tell you. My staying here puts everyone at risk."

She looks up at him. "What do you mean? Mother and Father love you. They'll keep you safe."

Jon smiles, slow and sweet and sad. He looks like Father so much, these days. So very much like him, in the way he talks, deep and strong, and the way his smiles are rare, the breadth of his shoulders and the way he wields a sword. "They've kept me safe my whole life. It's my turn to keep them safe now. I wish I could tell you more but..."

"I won't ever see you again, will I?"

"No." He kisses the top of her head, and Sansa feels warmth bloom in her stomach, despite the hurt gathering in her chest, a surge of want, to get closer to him, to let him kiss her again and again. His lips are so soft. "I want you to remember something for me."

"What?" she asks faintly, her words barely a whisper.

"Family, duty, honor. Family before duty, and duty before honor." He pressed their foreheads together, and the air between them is warm, molten. "Will you remember, Sansa?"

_I will_ , she vows. _I will._

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Jon leaves._

_Bran falls._

_Lady dies._


	3. for all of my trying, we still end up dying

"Where will you go?" Lord Stark asks him, the night after the King's feast, after Joffrey and Sansa's betrothal has been all but declared.

"Dorne," he replies, not meeting his eyes. "They say it's easier for a bastard, there." He watches Ned's shoulders relax from the corner of his eye, guilt churning in his stomach, like something raw and clawing and alive, and asks the gods forgiveness for his lies.

"Good," Lord Stark replies, smiling gently. "That's a good choice, son. I'll write to Lord Manderly at White Harbor. He'll arrange for your passage to Sunspear."

* * *

 

 

"So," Lord Wendel Manderly crows, slapping Jon on the back as they make their way through the bustling dockyard, and Jon has to steel himself so he won't stumble and embarrass himself. "Dorne, eh?"

The air is thick with brine and smoke, the roar of the sea and sailors and whores an assault on his senses after the endless silence of the North. White Harbor is the North's only port, and the Manderlys are their richest bannermen - Wendel Manderly is enormous man, jowly and obese, purple shadows under his eyes, fat fingers heavy with golden rings.

He frowns just slightly. "Dorne?" he asks, a note of hesitant confusion in his voice.

"Aye," Manderly booms. "Tis where your lord father's sendin' ye, innit?"

Jon shakes his head. "No," he replies. "No, we had initially planned for Dorne but..." Jon sighs. "You didn't receive the second raven, did you?"

Manderly scowls down at him. "What second raven?"

"Father wrote to tell you there's been a change of plans. It must've... I don't know, gotten lost, probably. I'm not going to Dorne, my lord," Jon says, respectfully. "I'm headed for Essos."

And very, very briefly, Jon wonders when he became such an accomplished liar.

* * *

 

 

After lessons with the septa were over - and hers had been extended so far after Sansa's were over, it was **_beyond_** ridiculous - Arya raced back to her chamber in the Red Keep, nearly tumbling headfirst through the doors. She could practice with Needle now, _finally_ , and she knew the perfect place for it too - a hidden terrace in the Maidenhall that no one ever visited. She skidded to her knees next to the trunks, throwing them open and rummaging carelessly. Where- where was- _gods, where was it?!_

"Are you looking for this?"

Arya whirled around to face her intruder, eyes going narrow and angry, when Sansa stepped out from the shadows, a long, thin sword held gingerly away from her body. From the windows, sunlight streamed in, the bustle and cry of King's Landing filtering in muted to the Red Keep.

"Have you been _spying_ on me?" Arya demanded furiously.

Sansa shakes her head, flags of red on her cheeks, lips pressed together tightly. "I gave you one of my embroidered handkerchiefs, last week. I just wanted it back."

"So you went through my things, with asking me," Arya accused angrily. "How dare you?!"

"How da- You have a _sword!_ A real, proper sword!"

Arya stuck her chin up, shoulders back, knees apart. She looked like a man ready to fight to the death. "So?" Arya dared quietly.

"So," Sansa replied, scared, "where did you get it? Did you steal it? _Please_ ," she begged, carefully placing the sword on Arya's bed, before walking up to her angry, mutinous little sister. " _Please_ tell me the truth, I can't protect if you I don't know what's going on-"

"I didn't steal it!" Arya protests, pushing Sansa away and crossing her arms over her chest. "And," she added spitefully, "I don't need your _**protection**_."

Sansa breathed in deeply, palms itching to slap that arrogant, bratty expression off her face. _'Winter is coming,'_ Papa had said. _'And in winter, we must protect each other.'_ Gods, but if only Arya made it a little easier... just a little. Not for the first time, Sansa wished Myrcella had been her sister. Taking care of Myrcella would have been a _breeze_.

"Where did you get it, then?"  
Arya's mouth snapped shut, her grey eyes shuttering, but not before Sansa glimpsed an expression of deep hurt cross Arya's little face, and she knew. She knew.

"Jon," Sansa concluded quietly, and when Arya's gaze darted upward, wide-eyed, she had her confirmation.

"Well," Sansa said, mouth pursed in a disapproving line, "If you're going to be running around with a sword-"

"-I'm not going to be ' _running around_ ' with it!"

Sansa arched a brow. "Yes you are," she retorted, and Arya actually blushed. _Arya. **Blushed**._ "And since you are, you'd best get very good at it very quickly." Arya's mouth fell open, and Sansa patted herself on the back. Shocking Arya was such a rare and beautiful thing.

"I'll talk to Father," she continued in that same casual, blithe tone. "Let's see if we can't get you some lessons."

"You-" Arya choked out. " _Really_?"

Sansa grinned. "Really," she confirmed.

She never expected Arya to jump into her arms, clutching her around the neck, whispering, ' _Thank you thank you thank you! Oh, Sansa, you're the best sister!_ ' and they both crashed to the floor together, giggling and gasping, their skinny limbs all tangled up together.

* * *

 

 

"Alright lad?" Captain Fenwick asks, voice raised above the roar of the waves.

The sea spray is cold as needles against his face, the clean, icy breeze staving off the worst of his nausea, as Jon hangs onto the railing, white-knuckled, stomach tossing harder than the agitated seas.

Jon nods to the captain, not trusting himself to speak. He's a grizzly, brown-skinned old bear, the man who runs the ship, the Silk Serpent, with an ugly puckered scar running from his temple to jaw, slashing across his nose in a pink-white welt of mottled tissue.

The captain chuckles dryly. "Not found your sea legs, eh? Well, when you got yerself together, Jack here will show you the ropes, set you your tasks," he says, pushing forward, a tall, blunt-featured boy with a quick, canny smile and golden hair. "You work for your bread, aboard the Serpent, understood?"

"Aye, Cap'n," Jon chokes out, bile rising up his throat. He's going to- _**gods**_ , he's going to puke his _guts_ out.

Fenwick grins broadly, his teeth yellowed and chipped, gold glinting in the back of his mouth. "Good man."

* * *

 

 

"That's the sealed hold," Jack announces, carelessly waving in the direction of a padlocked door in the other end of the lower decks. "You'll not have any work here, though. I need you up in the ropes, with Pippin."

"What's in there?" Jon asks, taking note of the armed sailors at the doorway, their eyes drooping but their sword arms stiff and ready.

Jack grins, eyes shining. "Gold," he says. "We're carryin' great big mounds of gold to Pentos, Jon Snow."

* * *

 

 

"All the best swords have names, you know," Sansa whispers to her sister at dinner. "Have you named yours?"

"Yes," Arya murmurs quietly, a mischievious glint in her eyes. "I named it Needle."

Sansa swats the back of her head, and Arya explodes in muffled laughter. From across the dinner table, the Queen watches both of them with a strange, sour expression.

* * *

 

 

The first blare of the horn jolts Jon out of his sleep, the night they're passing by the ports of Duskendale, and he tumbles right out of his hammock, falling face-first onto the floor.

Ghost perks up, and pads to Jon, nosing at him, as Jon clutches his bloody nose, still blinking blearily.

"Wha... Jon?" Pippin asks, peering over the edge of his hammock. "Whatcha doin' down there?"

"Fell," Jon mutters darkly, shoving Ghost away gently when he tries to lick the blood away, the giant, soft-headed idiot.

"The horn, weren't it?" Jack asks sagely, his pale moonface peering down at Jon in the darkness. "Nearly pissed meself the first time I heard it. Ye don't need to worry, Snow. One blast only means we's approachin' port."

"And two blasts?"

Pippin and Jack's pale faces turn quiet and somber. "Two blasts means approachin' storm," Jack tells him. "Three blasts... Three blasts means approachin' pirates."

* * *

 

 

The first time Jon hears three blasts, he's on the riggings by the mizzenmast, the crow's nest only a few feet up. He's been at sea eight months by then, and he's learnt by then to not be jolted by its ominous moan, so he just squints up at the Rivers twins in the nest, when the first horn sounds.

They're in the inward curve of the Bay of Pentos, but there's no proper port for miles. Are those boys drunk, or just stupid? The horn blares again, and Jon tightens his grip on the thick ropes, his bare toes curled around the wooden beams holding the sails closed. The sky is dark today, clouds looming threateningly overhead, but a storm? Not bloody likely.

When the horn blares a third time, his insides go cold. Pirates.

From above him, he hears Derrick Rivers call, "Reaver, on starboard!" his thin voice high, quivering with fear. "Reaver!"

* * *

 

 

"Sansa?"

She startles up from her bed, nearly giving herself whiplash as she turns to the door.

"Arya," Sansa gasps, trying to catch her breath. The moon is full tonight, silvery bands of light streaming in through the windows of Sansa's bedchamber. "Seven have mercy, you idiot, you nearly stopped my heart." She looks at Arya, at her quiet, sad-eyed sister, and wriggles to the side of her bed, patting the empty space. Arya silently comes to bed, tucking herself under the covers with Sansa. They lie down, facing each other.

"You're supposed to be in bed," Sansa reproves gently.

"I **_am_** in bed," Arya retorts, but it has none of her usual waspish sting and Sansa lets it go.

"Is something wrong?"

"I never- I never said sorry," Arya whispers. "About Lady," she says, and Sansa's breath catches, a barb of buried pain lancing hotly through her heart, and she curls into herself involuntarily. "I'm _**so**_ sorry, Sansa."

She forces herself to breathe. "I never said sorry about Mycah either," Sansa makes herself say, the words scraping against the back of her throat like poisoned thorns. "He was..." She breathes again, in and out. In and out. "He was your friend, wasn't he?"

"Yes. He- he was."

"Everything keeps going wrong," Sansa whispers, wretchedly. "Bran fell and Lady died and Mycah died, and Papa never smiles anymore, and Bran might never walk again, and Jon-" But here, her voice breaks, a sob catching, and she can't say anything more.

"I hate this place," Arya confesses in the darkness, a secret held between sisters who're just beginning to trust each other. "I hate the queen," she curses, knees rising up to tuck against her bony chest. "I hate the stupid, fat king, and I hate Joffr-"

" ** _Hush_** ," Sansa whispers urgently, tucking Arya against her. "Hush, Arya. We've come to a dangerous place. We have to be careful."

"Why?" Arya demands furiously. "I don't- I'm not afraid!"

Sansa presses a kiss to Arya's brow, holding her tightly. "They killed Mycah," she whispers into Arya's hair, her heart breaking for the home she's left behind. "They killed Lady. And we couldn't protect them. Father couldn't protect them. _No one could_."

She holds Arya, running a soothing hand down her angry, defiant little sister's back, wishing she could find a way to make things simpler. "We need to be _careful_."

* * *

 

 

It's slaughter.

The pirate crew is better; better equipped, more practiced, and thirsting for blood, boarding the Serpent with military efficiency, warcries shaking the very timbers of the trading vessel. But the Serpent's crewmen fight with the desperation of men knowing their deaths are near. _You want to take me?_ they scream with their swords. _Try, you bastards! Fuckin' just try!_

When Jon swings his sword one last time, decapitating his opponent in a spray of warm, sticky blood that gets into his eyes, and Ghost rips another's head off, Pippin and Jack have both disappeared, dragged into the fray of battle. The deck is slippery with blood, the moans of the dying all around him. There's others around him, still alive, gasping, clutching the ropes to keep themselves slumped upright, and with their faces so bloody, their spines so bowed, Jon can't even begin to tell if they are friends or foe.

"Jon..." a voice moans from behind him, and Jon skids in his haste, sliding to his knees next to Jack. Blood dribbles out of his mouth, his body prone against the rails. His chest has caved in, a great gash tearing open his stomach; when he breathes, it rattles, a wet, hollow sound that echoes around them.

"Jack," he mutters, feeling painfully helpless, like someone has snapped off his limbs. There's nothing he can do here- **_Nothing_** -

"Kill me," Jack rasps. "Kill me, _please_."

There's a burning at the back of his throat, a scream that wants to be let out, clawing at him, searing and hurting. Jon thinks if he started screaming now, he'd never stop, never _ever **ever** -_

He sends a prayer to the old gods, wondering if they listen to him here, so far from the North, and with a shaky, trembling hand, Jon Snow slices open his friend's throat.

In his grey-green eyes, the stars reflect in silver points of cold light.

* * *

 

 

Sansa is quiet. Sansa is careful.  
And when the time comes, Sansa runs.  
But it doesn't matter.

They kill Jory Cassel, Jaime Lannister and his goldcloaks, they kill like him in the streets like a dog, stabbing Father through the thigh, leaving him limping and grey, and with dark circles under his eyes, his mouth tilting down at the sides. Sansa thinks about little Beth Cassel, left so far behind, with her big dewy eyes, and dark curling hair, and her tiny, fat, starfish hands clasped in Sansa's, giggling as they dashed through Winterfell's halls, skirts flapping about their ankles. She wonders if she knows her Father is dead.

The end begins all of a sudden, barely days after Father has told them to pack their bags, and prepare for their return home.

" _Run_ , Sansa," Septa Mordane commands her, as they stand in a blood-stained corridor, the sounds of metal hitting flesh echoing through the Tower of the Hand. " **RUN**!"

Sansa runs. It doesn't matter.

* * *

 

 

There's only one other man alive.

A Tyroshi, headed for Pentos same as Jon. He fought with the pirates. He likely killed Jon's crewmates, just as Jon killed his.

"I'm sorry," he says, standing next to Jack's body. "He was your friend?"

"Aye," Jon grits out, itching to cut this man open, to shatter his chest in, to cleave out his intestines, to make him _hurt_ , make him **_bleed_** -

But that helps no one. "They were all my friends."

"I am sorry, then. Your ship was going to meet Magister Illyrio's at the docks. Do you still wish to go to Pentos?"

"Yes. No. I don't-" Jon sighs. He knows Viserys Targaryen is here. He, and Daenerys. But after this... Gods, what he wouldn't give, to be at Winterfell? To see Arya, to spar with Robb... To hold Sansa again. To kiss her, just **_once_**. To tell her who he was, and how it was alright, for him to want her the way he did, and how she was _everything_ -

But Winterfell is a thousand leagues away. _Sansa_ is a thousand leagues away.

The Tyroshi looks at him curiously. "You're good with a sword," he says. "The Second Sons could use a man like you."

Jon looks at him curiously, his blue-black beard, his curved blades, the easy, dangerous way he carries himself. "You're a sellsword?"

"We prefer the term mercenary," he replies, as if _that's_ better. "My name is Daario Nahaaris."

Maybe... Maybe. He nods. "Jon Snow," he replies. When the grasp elbows in acknowledgement, both their hands come away bloody.

* * *

 

 

 

 

_Robert dies.  
_

_Arya escapes._

_Sansa does not.  
Father does not._

 

 The game begins.

 

 


	4. keepin' the wolf from the door

"Write to your brother," Cersei said. "Tell him to come to King's Landing, and bend the knee to King Joffrey, and we will release your father into his care."

Sansa shook her head mutely, eyes wide in horror, lips pressed together.

Cersei's beautiful features hardened. "I'm disappointed in you, my dear," the Queen said, and it felt like a death blow to her heart. She just wanted to Queen to _like_ her, that's all. Just to be _liked_.

But not at the cost of her Father.  
Jon's voice whispered to her, the weight of his arms warm around her, even though her heart was tripping and her skin had turned clammy. ' _Family_ ,' he reminded her, his deep voice echoing through the fog of pain. ' _Duty, honor. You are a Tully, from your mother's blood. These are your words too._ '

"My father _isn't_ \- He wouldn't!" Sansa insisted, fingers twisting painfully in her lap. "He _loved_ King Robert, he _knows_ I am betrothed to Joffrey. He wouldn't hurt him! _Please_ ," she beseeched, tears glittering in her eyes, "just let me _**speak**_ to him-"

"I just said he was a traitor," Cersei hissed. "You wish to speak to a _traitor?_ "

Sansa hardened her jaw. _Family, duty, honor._  
Jon had been strong. She would be strong too. "I wish," Sansa said, chin high, nostrils flared, breath turning ragged in her chest, "to speak to my Father."

Cersei smiled. "Remember," she said, cruel and cold as the winter itself, " ** _you_** did this. **_You_** brought this on your father." The Queen nodded to Ser Meryn Trant, who bowed and left the room.

"Did what?" Sansa asked, voice reduced to a broken, terrified whisper. Being brave was _hard_.

But Cersei's smiled never faltered. "You'll see."

Sansa didn't know how long they say there, the air thrumming with palpable tension, the members of the Small Council going quiet and still, stone statues every one of them.

Varys, Pycelle, Tyrell, Baelish. Mute, useless _cowards_.

They heard the thump of Ser Meryn's footsteps before they saw him return, the clank of his armor, the rattle of his scabbard against his thigh. He entered the room with a dark cloth bag in hand, held away from his body. It was damp, dripping just a little. He dropped it on the table between Cersei and Sansa, and the cloth opened to reveal a severed, bloody hand.

There was a ring on the third finger, a signet ring. A silver wolf howled against black stone.

 _Father_. They'd cut off his-

"The hand of the Hand," Cersei murmured. "How appropriate." She looked up to Sansa once more. "The next time you deny me, Ser Meryn will cut higher. The elbow, the shoulder... And he has three other limbs yet. Now. Will you write the letter to Robb Stark?"

Sansa was shaking, painfully, teeth chattering together even in the summer heat. Her nails had cut so deeply into her own palms, blood dripped from her fists, staining the front of her gown red.

"You're- you-" Sansa took a shaky breath, eyes hot and dry, heartbeat faster than a terrified bird. "You're a **_monster_**."

But Cersei only tilted her head to the side, beautiful and elegant and cold, so cold. "No, little dove," she said, in her lovely, dulcet voice. "I'm a mother."

* * *

 

 

"And who is this?" one of the three captains of the Second Sons drawls, the one they call the Titan's Bastard.

"This is Jon Snow," Daario replies, standing at ease, thumbs tucked into his sword belt. "He'll ride with me."

The Bastard, Mero, raises a brow. He's sprawled in the cushions outside his tent, a whore in his lap, and he empties a horn of ale down his throat, letting it clatter to his side, restlessly stroking the girl's arse as he surveys the new recruit. Jon stands a little ways away from them, in the shadow of the enormous oak under which they've set up the command tents, Ghost by his side, eyes flashing blood red in the gloom. Behind them, in the western horizon, the sun dies, long streaks of golden orange swallowed up by the encroaching darkness.

"Oh? He'll ride with you, will he?"

Daario smiles at the captain. "He killed eighteen Reaver pirates by himself, in battle on board an unanchored ship." The cocky, handsome lieutenant slaps Jon's shoulder with casual familiarity. "He will lend his sword. He will ride with my men."

" _ **Our**_ men," another captain rumbles, his dark, leathery face caught in a disapproving scowl. "Not yours, Naharis. _Ours_."

Daario merely inclines his head, in agreement. "As you say, captain."

Mero slaps the wench on her arse, slipping a coin between her teeth and shooing her away. As the wind rustles across the plain, it lifts her dress, dark brown nipples flashing with little silver barbells. She catches Jon's eyes, and winks, throwing back her shoulders as she walks away, her hips moving in time to a rhythm only she can hear.

Mero rises from his seat, to a towering six and half feet tall, his skin bronzed by the southern sun, his hair dark and thick and coarse, gold and jewels glinting on each finger. "Very well," he murmurs. "Get the boy some armor, if he needs it, and find him in a place in the ranks. We have a new contract in Lys. Apparently, the trade council has mutinied and kidnapped a princess. We depart in three hours."

* * *

 

"It's from Sansa. She's asking me to come to the capital, and bend the knee to Jo-"

Catelyn snatched the scroll from Robb's hand, staring horrified at her daughter's words. The scroll was stained, long, rusty streaks marring the words, blurring the ink.

"Blood," Catelyn whispered. "It's her _blood_. They've _hurt_ her."

* * *

 

 

" _Please_ , your grace," Sansa says, begging on her knees, in front of all the court. "Please have mercy on my traitor Father," she beseeches, so cold and weary and alone in this awful city, deep purple bruises under her eyes, tears streaming openly down her face.

"If your Father admits his treachery, if he confesses to conspiring against the crown... Then I will show mercy."

And Sansa knows the battle is lost, before it has begun, because Ned Stark is an _honorable_ man. And honorable men will **_die_** , before giving up their precious, bloody honor, even if it means they will abandon their children to the hands of _monsters_.

 _Family before duty, and duty before honor._  
It is a lesson Jon taught Sansa, but no one taught Ned Stark.

 **Fuck** honor.

* * *

 

_Father dies.  
Sansa screams._

_Arya is not there._  
_Jon is not there.  
No one is there._

* * *

 

 

They declare Robb King in the North, and her brother starts a war. He gathers an army, and captures Jaime Lannister, and he does not come for Sansa.

No one comes for Sansa.

* * *

 

 

On the eve of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, Cersei calls Sansa to her side.

"What are you doing, little dove?"

Sansa smiles. "Praying," she replies, serenely. _For your son's death,_ she thinks, but she doesn't say it out loud. _For your little dwarf brother's death. For Jaime Lannister's death. I hope Robb takes Jaime's head. I hope he mounts it on a bloody pike. I hope he makes you **look at it-**_

Sansa breathes in. And exhales.

She smiles, beatific and sweet, like a highborn girl full of romantic dreams, and she doesn't say any of these things to her Queen. It is a comforting mask, this face of the girl she used to be. But, from the way her jaw hardens, and her green eyes flash like wildfire, Sansa thinks Cersei might have heard it anyway.

* * *

 

 

Renly Baratheon dies, by hand of a shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon.

Highgarden comes to King's Landing's aid, only to watch Tyrion set Stannis' entire fleet afire. The stench of burning wood, devoured by raging green flames, the cloud of smoke and ash and horror, does not leave the capital for days.

But Margaery Tyrell is named Joffrey's betrothed.  
And when Sansa smiles, hidden and secretive, her eyes are brighter than the summer sky.

* * *

 

 _Joffrey strips her._  
_Meryn beats her._  
_Robb does not come for her._  
_No one comes for her._

_And Sansa decides to play the game._

* * *

 

 

"She took Astapor," Mero growls, murder flashing in his eyes.

" _Who_ took Astapor?" Daario drawls, Jon lounging next to him with Ghost curled at his feet.

Jon looks remarkably less Northern now, his skin darkened to gold from the sun, his hair pulled back, his jaw thick with beard. He wears dark linen shirts, open to mid-chest much like Daario, and riding breeches, with calf-high leather boots, and not much else.

The command tent is enormous, the seating area flush with enormous, beautifully embroidered pillows strewn across three enormous divans. Mero sits at the head, with the other two captains across from Daario and Jon.

There's a pretty, entirely naked girl curled into Daario's side, a goblet of wine held loosely between her long, thin fingers that she and Daario have been sipping from in turns.

"Daenerys Targaryen."

Jon stiffens, and Ghost, sensing his discomfort, lifts up his head, growling lowly. The girls shrinks into Daario's side, watching the direwolf with huge, fearful eyes.

"Daenerys is in Astapor?" Jon asks, frowning blackly. "I thought she was in Vaes Dothrak with Drogo."

One of the other captains waves, scoffing. "That was a _year_ ago, boy. Khal Drogo is dead," he retorts. "Her brother, what's his name-"

"Viserys," Jon replies, nostrils flared. "Viserys Targaryen."

The captain looks at Jon curiously. "Aye. Viserys. Also dead."

"She was pregnant," Jon points out. "She must have had the child by now."

Mero scowls, interrupting, "Who gives a bloody _**motherfuck**_ about the _child?!_ The dragon bitch has taken Astapor. With eight thousand Unsullied, and three fire-breathing monsters..." He exhales hard. "What else, next? Who else?"

A woman ducks into the command tent, in the full heavy, blue robes of the Mercy Women. She bows deeply to each of three captains, and to Jon and Daario. "My good sers," she says, in deeply accented Common Tongue, "I bring a message to you from the masters of Yunkai. The city needs your services," she says, meeting Mero's eyes, "and we pay in gold."

* * *

 

 

"Let me help you," Petyr says.  
"Then find my _sister_ ," Sansa replies, brokenly. "Find Arya, and I will do anything for you. _**Anything**_."

And Shae's words echo in her ears. _'There is only one thing men want from pretty girls.'_

So Sansa looks at Petyr, letting her fear and helplessness rise to her eyes, letting the image of her Father dying rise like bile to her mind, shutting her eyes painfully and feeling tears trickle down her face. When he steps closer to her, a soft, warm hand cupping the side of her face, the gentle press of his lips to her cheek, at the corner of her mouth, Sansa knows she has at least one true friend in the Red Keep.

She lets him take her into his arms with the frail, trembling steps of a child. She lets him seduce her, with sweet words, his hands running down her back, and over his shoulder, she looks at Shae, her dark watchful eyes meeting bright victorious blue, and she almost smiles.

' _Don't trust anyone_ ,' her pretty, exotic handmaiden had told her. ' _Life is safer that way._ '

Robb didn't trade Jaime Lannister and bring her home. Mother didn't treat with the Lannisters to bring her back home.

No, Sansa Stark has no one left to trust.  
But she will use _everyone_ , if it means she can stay safe. If it means Arya can be saved. If it means she can go back to Bran and Rickon and Jeyne and Beth and home- _home- **home-**_

_Family. Duty. Honor.  
Family before duty, and duty before honor._

_Look, Jon,_ she thinks, late at night when she can't sleep, despair roiling in her like a storm. _I remembered._

* * *

 

 

_Theon turns traitor._  
_Bran dies.  
Rickon dies._

_The Boltons turn traitor._  
_Robb dies.  
Mother dies._

_Sansa falls into Petyr's arms, and tells him she wants to run away with him. He believes her.  
_

* * *

 


	5. i'm a sinner in a church, burnin' up for you

"And finally," Grand Maester Pycelle announces to the appellant, "the King grants you a sum of a hundred silver stags, and bids you fair travels, good Ser."  
  
The young Highgarden knight bows deeply to Joffrey, who looks bored and sullen-faced to Sansa, watching from the balcony high above the Court. All of it seems like white noise to her. She hasn't slept for three days, and when she closes her eyes, she sees them - Mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon and Father, dying, and _dying_ , again and _again_.

"If there aren't any further requ- What?" Pycelle mutters, aside, when a pageboy taps him on the shoulder, passing the maester a tightly furled scroll bearing a plain, unmarked seal.

"What is the meaning of this?" Joffrey demands, interest perked up at the chance of devising a new torture. "How _dare_ you interrupt the maester, you little-"

But Pycelle has gone ashen under his pendulous beard, rising from his seat and tottering up to the Throne, breath wheezing out in high-pitched puffs. "Beg- beg your pardon, your grace," he is saying, and a low, dark throb saturates under Sansa's skin, cutting through her melancholy.

_Something is about to go wrong. Something-_

"A message from our friends in Slaver's Bay," he says, hands trembling violently as he hands King Joffrey the scroll, "delayed by more than two months, as a result of terrible storms. It says- It says-"

Sansa watches Joffrey's eyes flash with fear as he scans the scroll, watches his thin shoulders tremble with an uncontrolled spasm. "What-" he splutters, reddening, "What _is_ this? What **_lies_** are these?"

"Not lies, your grace," Pycelle whines like a piteous dog, his feeble, shaky voice ringing through the court, as it explodes in furious whispers. "Truth! _**Truth!**_ Her dragons took Astapor. Barristan Selmy serves as her Kingsguard, Jorah Mormont serves as her general."

"This mentions one more man..." Joffrey murmurs, reading the message once more, and Sansa notes with growing fear how white fingers have gone, how the pitch of his voice has been shifting higher, younger, like a scared little boy.

Pycelle nods, enthusiastic now. "Aye, your grace! A northern bastard, who commands a second army of mercenaries and sellswords for the Targaryen girl. They call themselves the Direwolves."

"His name sounds... _familiar_."

* * *

 

 

"You will go, Nahaaris," Mero commands. "Find out all there is to know about this dragon whore. The size of her dragons, the size of her army," and Mero chuckles slightly, adding, "the size of her royal tits."

"I'll go with him," Jon adds, and the three captains turn to him, hard-faced.

"Why?" Mero asks, silkily. "To prop up his pretty cock?"

Jon says nothing, and Daario says nothing, and almost in unison, they break out slow, menacing smiles. "You spend a lot of time dreaming about that, do you, Mero?" Jon asks. "Thinking about Daario's pretty cock?"

When the captain starts to redden, Daario chuckles quietly, and the two men turn and mount their horses, heading off into the sun, eastwards, towards Astapor.

* * *

 

 

_"His name sounds... familiar."_

"It should be, your grace." Pycelle turns up to Sansa, pointing a long, accusing finger, his rheumy, bloodshot eyes glittering with undisguised glee. "Jon Snow, the commander of the Direwolves, is _her_ brother."

Sansa stumbles back, reeling, eyes wide, icy numbness pouring through her veins.

_No. No, it isn't **possible** \- He's supposed to be in **Dorne** -_

And then, from beyond the walls of the Red Keep, from the streets of King's Landing, the alleys of Flea Bottom and the pits of Soup Lane, very faintly, they begin to hear the screaming.

* * *

 

 

Daenerys smiles, fire burning in her belly, when the emissary from Yunkai leaves her tent, sniveling and angry and wide-eyed with fear.

"Your grace!" Grey Worn calls, from outside her tent, and she turns to him, her smile lingering.

"Yes?" she calls back, not bothering to raise her voice. If they wish to hear her, she will be heard.

"There is another man, who wants audience with you," Grey Worm replies, his jaw tight with disapproval. A soldier walks between the Unsullied, a few feet behind him, an enormous, white beast beside him, too feral to be a dog, too huge to be a wolf. "He calls himself-"

"-Jon Snow, your grace," the man cuts in, stepping into her tent. His eyes flicker to the dragons, and Drogon chitters curiously at this new arrival. The beast by the man snarls back.

Viserion hisses at the Westerosi too, but Rhaegal... does not. With the lazy, ambling hops of a jungle cat, Rhaegal half-flies, half-walks to the newcomer, and when they are half a breath away, Jon Snow's face breaks into a smile. He crouches to his feet, reaches out to the dragon, and strokes Rhaegal's long, scaly neck.

The boy chances a look at Daenerys, from above Rhaegal's purring snout, wisps of smoke escaping his nostrils. "I am called Jon Snow, your grace, but my mother gave me another name when I was born."

"How are you _doing_ that?!" Ser Barristan interrupts, and Jon grins.

"Ser Barristan," he acknowledges. "An honor to meet you. This one recognizes my blood," he replies easily, before rising to his feet and Daenerys watches in lax, open-mouthed shock as Rhaegal perches on Jon Snow's broad shoulder as if the dragon doesn't weigh nine stones.

"Blood?" Daenerys repeats numbly. "Whose blood?"

" _My_ blood, your grace," he answers. "My mother was Lyanna Stark. My father... was Rhaegar Targaryen." He grins, cheeky almost, a little brash, and the white of his teeth is a stark contrast to his golden skin, one hand buried in the beast's fur, the other rising up in a little wave.

"Hello, Aunt."

* * *

 

 

"Bring her down!" Joffrey roars, eyes wide and panicky, face purpling with rage, and the Kingsguard falls over themselves to accede his demands. " _BRING HER HERE!_ "

Ser Meryn Trant grabs Sansa by her hair, wrenching her back and dragging her down the stairs. When he tosses her before the Iron Throne, there are tears of brutal, awful pain streaming down her face, bruises forming around her arms and all down her hip from being dragged down the stairs, a shattered stay of her corset digging into her stomach. She tries and tries to breathe, and the whole world spins.

"Strip her!" Joffrey bellows. "Cut the little bitch! _I want her to SCREAM!"_

But she doesn't.

Sansa doesn't whimper, or beg; she does not make a sound. She won't give him the pleasure.

Through the windows of the Throne Room, a shadow passes over the King. There is an unearthly screech, and the sound of soldiers marching, the steady, relentless thump of their boots hitting stone.

It grows louder.

* * *

 

 

" _What_ ," Daenerys bites out, rising to her feet, trembling with rage, "is the _**meaning**_ of this? What have you done to Rhaegal?"

"Rhaegal..." Jon repeats lowly, turning up to face of the dragon, stroking his long, spiny back. "You named him after my Father."

"He was my _brother_. He was **_not_** your father!" Daenerys spits. She turns to her generals. "Seize this imposter!"

"Ah, your grace," Jon replies, as Rhaegal whirls into the air, hissing at Grey Worm, and forcing him to retreat, just as Ghost sinks into a low, menacing crouch, a growl rumbling continuously from its throat, crimson eyes fixed on Selmy and Mormont. "Look."

He walks up to her, until she can see his eyes. " _Look_."

Their eyes are mirrors of each other's; a dark, Targaryen violet. "We are blood."

* * *

 

 

"Your _family_..." Joffrey curses, as Ser Meryn draws his blade, kicking Sansa's back, and ripping open her gown. "Your family has been a _curse_ on this kingdom for so _long_..."

The flat of his broadsword slaps down on her side, his gloved fist crashes down on against her cheek, and black spots dance in her vision as she bites down on her tongue.

Sansa spits blood, as Joffrey swears, "I should've killed you! I should've killed you all the day I arrived at Winterfell, like the fucking dogs you are! _HIT HER!"_

Ser Meryn draws back his mailed fist once more, and the doors to the Throne Room crash open, Lancel Lannister bursting through, red-faced, panting. " _Dragons_!" he screams. "Dragons on the Blackwater! Dra-"

A bloody spear erupts clean through his skull, just as Sansa forces herself to grit herself through the pain, to turn around, and it clatters to the marble floor, trailing shattered bone and viscera. Lancel Lannister slumps to the ground, eyes still wide, his jaw a seeping, bloody crater.

The sound of approaching soldiers grows to a deafening crash. 

* * *

 

 

The night before Daenerys lays her terms for Yunkai's peace, they dine together, she and Jon and Barristan and Jorah, Missandei and Grey Worm with them.

Stories fly across the dinner table with surprising camaraderie, easy laughter filling the tent, and it is as if they have known each for years, she and Jon. He is quiet where she is brash, and sly where she is quick to laugh, and with Rhaegal never leaving his side and Drogon and Viserion never leaving hers... it feels like. Well, like, family. She tries not to think what it might have been, if she had run away with Jaehaerys rather than Viserys... how different her life might have been.

It is at the end of their meal that Ser Barristan speaks to Jon, his voice low. "I am sorry, Lord Jaehaerys," he says, and _gods_ , Jon thinks. _That just sounds **odd** ,_ "for what happened to your family."

Jon wrinkles his brow, still smiling. "My family, Ser?" He gestures to Daenerys at the other end of the table. "My family is right here."

Ser Barristan pauses. "Ah," he murmurs, drawing back. "I see. Very well then."

Jon's smile drops. "What do you mean?"

The old knight shrugs. "You grew up with the Starks. I thought... Well."

He sucks in a harsh breath, and Rhaegal goes absolutely still. "Something has happened to the Starks?" he asks, a crackling, electric intensity vibrating about him. The direwolf rises to its haunches, growling, fangs dripping as it prowls to Jon's seat.

"You don't know," Ser Barristan breathes, shocked. "You don't... By the Seven, boy. How could you not _**know?!** "_

* * *

 

 

" _Men!_ " Ser Meryn Trant roars, as the Kingsguard dash up the stairs to ring the throne, swords drawn and at the ready. " _Guard your king!_ "

The foreign soldiers pour into the Throne Room, as the screaming nobles retreat to the walls. The soldiers' faces are covered by steel helms, their lances and spears still dripping with blood, the steps smearing muddy, crimson bootprints on the pristine floor. They form files on either side of the corridor, as Joffrey goggles at them from the gaps between his protectors.

"Hail!" announces the soldier, at the head of the battalion, his voice ringing through the silent room. "Hail for the prince!"

Sansa watches, sprawled on the floor, half-naked and bleeding, wide-eyed, rasping her breaths as a bone-white direwolf pads silently into the room, walking up to her until they are nose to nose. It's muzzle is dripping scarlet.

"Ghost?" she whispers fearfully. The direwolf gently licks her cheek, smearing blood across her skin, and Sansa's whole body shakes painfully with a suppressed sob, as she inches forward to bury her face in the soft, warm, familiar fur.

" _Ghost_ ," she whispers, wrapping her arms around his enormous neck, body trembling with the force of her sobs.

She almost misses the moment the dragon sweeps in overhead.

* * *

 

 

"I have to- I need to go- She's-"

"You _can't_ leave! You just- We've just- You _can't!_ "

Jaehaerys turns to her, eyes haunted. In the dark skies above them, the three dragons screech and wheel in tight formation, sudden jets of flame lighting up the night. "Have you ever loved anyone, your grace? More than your own life?"

"Daenerys," she snaps. "Call me Daenerys. And I have."

"What would you do to get them back?"

 _Anything_ , she thinks, Drogo and Rhaego's images burning brighter than the sun in the landscape of her shattered heart. _I would watch women, children, whole cities burn. I would burn the world alive to get them back._

Daenerys barely breathes. "I _can't_ give you my army. I need to take Yunkai."

Jaehaerys laughs, the sound hollow, pained. "I don't need an _army_ to save her, Daenerys. I need twenty good men, a ship," he says, and points to the sky above them, "and one of those."

Daenerys smiles, as fierce and feral as her dragons, heat bubbling like lava down her spine.  
_This. This man loves like a Targaryen. This man would make a_ worthy _successor._

"You shall have more than that, nephew. And this is what you will do."

* * *

 

 

A horse canters into the Throne Room, a dappled white charger, draped in a jet-black surcoat bearing the Targaryen banner of arms, its pale coat heavily sprayed with blood.

Sansa watches the rider slide off with easy, practiced grace and stride to her. When he reaches her, he falls to his knees, and Sansa isn't sure when her hands came to rest in his, violet eyes meeting bright blue.

" _Sansa_ ," Jon murmurs, sounding wretched, hoarse, his hands shaking around her own, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead, and ripping off his cloak to drape around her shoulders. "Sansa."

"Jon," she replies, black encroaching on her vision, as Jon sweeps her off her feet and onto the saddle, mounting up alongside her. "You came," she murmurs, insensibly, wrapping her arms around him, shaking with fear and adrenaline. "You _came_ ," she repeats brokenly, again and again. "You **_came_**."

His arms tighten around her. Above them, the dragon screeches, and Jon is staring straight at Joffrey when he calls, "Rhaegal!"

Sansa looks up, and watches open-mouthed, as the dragon banks along the high, vaulted ceiling, turning to Jon. He points at the throne, where Joffrey has turned whiter than parchment, his fingers gripping the arms of the Throne in a painful, bloodless grip.

 

_"Dracarys."_

 

* * *

 

 

_Lions scream when they burn._

_The sound is sweeter than any music Sansa has ever heard._

 

* * *

 

 


	6. part i: shake off all your sins

_"Okay then," she says, taking a deep breath. She's tense, but underneath that, there is something… Cold. Fierce. Untouched, like winter itself._

_Sansa's tall, and lithe, and lovelier than he could have imagined, but there's something new about her. Something harsher, and colder. Jagged. Jon has a feeling that if he touched her wrong, she'd leave him bleeding._

_"Kiss me,” she commands, stepping closer to him, and Jon forgets to breathe._

* * *

They hold court for the first time, three days after the Rout of King's Landing. Unsullied soldiers station themselves throughout the city, distributing food and medical aid, throwing open the doors to the thousands of refugees fleeing the war. The maesters have sent ravens to every corner of Westeros, and now it is only a matter of each House pledging fealty to the new Prince. 

_Prince_ , Sansa muses, as Shae brushes out her hair, dressed in the Northern style to complement her silver-grey gown. 

_Prince Jaehaerys._

She rises from her seat, thanking Shae quietly, and leaves her room, Ghost padding at her side, a silent, watchful sentinel. 

_Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen._

How long has he been lying to her? How long has he known the truth about his family?  
Sansa has a feeling she already knows the answer. 

_Family. Duty. Honor._

Why did you come back, Jon? Am I family, or a duty, or a shield for your honor?  
This answer, she thinks, she doesn't want to know. The fantasy is sweeter - the dream of being loved, by a man like Jo- Jaehaerys. _Jon_. Sansa will hold onto it for as long as she can. 

* * *

_In the end, it is Sansa who kisses him._

_She crosses the distance between them, and presses a dry, almost sisterly kiss to his lips. Pulling back, she stares at him, brow notched, and eyes puzzled. There is a fading bruise still on the high point of her cheekbone, a dark welt on pale skin. It will leave a scar._

_Burning Meryn Trant had been a special kind of pleasure._

_But this, with her so near, sweet-scented and warm... Jon suppresses a shiver, and drops his hands to her hips, curling around her small waist. He tugs her closer, and breathes her in, and when he kisses her this time, open-mouthed and yearning, soft lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth, there is nothing brotherly about it._

* * *

"Do you, Lord Mace," Sansa asks, her voice ringing beautifully through the silent court, "of House Tyrell, and you, Lord Oberyn, of House Martell, and you, Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister, swear fealty to Queen Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, for yourself, and your sons, and your grandsons, and all those who follow, from this day till the end of time?"

Rhaegal, perched atop the swords of the Iron Throne, his tail resting on Jon's shoulder, screeches, a long spiral of smoke escaping his snout, a feral punctuation for Sansa's question. 

Tyrell starts at the sound, before recovering. "I do, my la- that is, your- your grace.”  
Oberyn and Tyrion are smoother, by far, in their acceptance of their new sovereign - the Martell sinks into a deep, graceful bow, and Sansa’s former Lannister husband flashes her a hard, cold smile before bowing sharply at the waist. 

"Arise, my lords,” Jon says. His voice has changed, grown deeper and richer, a foreign accent coloring his words, catching on strange new vowels, slipping past his lips like honeyed wine. Sansa watches the women at court, and sees Margaery Tyrell blush. Under the folds of her gown, hidden from the prying eyes of their audience, Sansa's hand curls into a fist. 

"Return home," Jon commands, his posture lazy, his eyes alert, a coiled beast waiting to pounce, "and secure the peace of your kingdoms. The Citadel has proclaimed the end of summer, and I'd like Highgarden, Dorne and Casterly Rock well-stocked and recovered from the war before autumn slips by." 

Ghost rises to his feet, and Jon idly strokes his ruff, hunching forward on the throne, an elbow on his knee, staring off into the distance. "Winter is coming."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sansa flinch. 

* * *

_They're of a height._

_He forgot that, in his years away from home._

_She falls back against the sheets, naked, eyes closed, fingers digging into the quilt, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. He climbs over her, brushing gentle kisses across her mouth, trailing down her neck. When he reaches her breasts, cupping the soft, silken weight in his hands, mouth closing over a blush-pink nipple, her back arches off the bed, a gasp flying from her throat. When he looks up at her, her blue eyes are all black, her mouth open in a shocked gasp._

_He worries the tip gently between his teeth, eliciting a strangled moan, and Sansa buries her fingers in his hair, holding him close. It feels like victory, fuller and more visceral than any war._

* * *

“They tell me you’re leaving.”

Sansa whips around, hand at her throat, to see Jon at her chamber’s door, in his tunic and breeches, swordbelt riding low on his lips, Ghost at his side. 

She closes her eyes, takes a deep, fortifying breath and looks back at him. His eyes are dark, in the shadowy light of the corridor, his skin golden where it catches the last of the afternoon’s sunlight. His beard is darker, now, coarser, and Sansa imagines what it feel like to kiss him. Would his lips still be as soft?

“I am,” she replies. “Your general, ah, Nahaaris? He tells me a contingent of your soldiers are under my command.”

“Yes.”

“Then I intend to take them North. I’m going to take back Winterfell.”

She sees his jaw flex, arms coming to cross over his chest, forearms tightening in- anger? 

“They were my brothers too, Sansa,” he says, voice hoarse and blatantly furious. He walks into the room, and it takes all the air out of her lungs; Sansa braces herself against the vanity, reminding herself to breathe when he comes chest to chest with her.

“No,” she chokes out, eyes narrowed, meeting fury with fury. “Not brothers. Cousins.”   
His calloused hand cups the side of her face, a line of heat agaisnt her jaw, and Sansa pushes down the urge to tuck herself closer into his warm skin. “Cousins, then,” he agrees quietly, their breaths mingling in the summer heat of the capital. Sansa’s hair sticks in damp curls to her neck and when she sucks in a shuddering breath, her breasts graze his chest.

“Let me come with you,” he whispers, plaintive and deep, sweeter than honey. “Gods, _please_ … Let me keep you safe."

She cant help the shiver that wracks through her body, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nodding into the bared, hot skin of his shoulder. “Okay,” she replies, tired beyond words, relief surging through her veins. “Okay. Let’s go home."

* * *

_He drifts lower, dropping kisses down her sternum, dipping his tongue into the hollow of her bellybutton, hiding his smile against her skin, when she giggles at that, bright and unexpected. Gods, she’s so lovely._

_He slides his hands underneath, to cup her soft, lush arse, to tilt her hips up to his mouth, dragging his tongue all up the length of her slit, and Sansa bucks out from his grasp, sitting up, hair in disarray, cheeks pink and mouth gaping in shock._

_“You can’t- You’re not-“ she splutters, one arm crossing over her heaving chest, the other braced back on the furs. “You’re not supposed to kiss me there!”_

_Jon smiles, crouching over her body, and tugs her hips up with a sharp, little jerk, grinning when she falls back onto the soft mattress with an affronted cry, and buries his mouth against her wet cunt, teeth and lips and tongue, heady with the taste of her, the sound of her high, whimpering gasps, the trembling of her fingers when she sinks her hand into the back of his neck. Her hips rock up into his tongue, pleas and sweetness keening from her throat, and Jon obliges, sinking a finger into that tight, slick pink, then two, sucking at her clit like he could die feasting on her body._

His _, by the old gods and the new, she is all_ his _._

* * *

Ramsay Bolton burns alive, and Rickon, with the wilding Osha, comes climbing up from the crypts of Winterfell.

Theon Greyjoy, a filthy, blubbering mess, smelling like salt and piss and dog shit, is removed from the kennels, and stripped of his titles for treachery against Robb Stark. He is sent to the Wall.

Sansa is named Warden Regent of the North, and in the long weeks when the lords of the North, and of the Riverlands, and the Eyrie too, arrive to the North’s stronghold and pledge fealty to the dragons once more, and Winterfell begins the long, arduous process of rebuilding, Sansa catches Jon _looking_ at her…

His gaze burns at the back of her neck when she turns away - but he is a _prince_ , and he belongs in the _capital_ , by his new Queen’s side, and King’s Landing is a place to which she will **_never_**  return, not **_ever_** , not as long as she draws breath.

So she turns away, heat gathering low and sticky in her belly, heart racing in her breast, and tries not to think how his hands would feel on her skin.

Rhaegal grows ever larger. Arya and Bran remain missing.


	7. part ii: let us be brave

The months after the return North are dark, tumultuous times. 

Jon travels south once more, and discovers the cells holding Cersei and Tywin Lannister have been broken into, emptied. Her children are gone too, and so is Grand Maester Pycelle, and then Brienne of Tarth comes riding through the Mud Gate, Jaime Lannister on horseback beside her. He loses most of his already foreshortened arm, taking a spear in the side from the Unsullied when he goes berserk with rage at the news of his missing children, his vanished lover, his lost father.

Tyrion returns to King’s Landing once more, in exchange for allowing his wounded, barely-recovered brother to go home, Brienne by his side, and Jon re-instates Tyrion as Acting Hand, only this time to serve a Queen. 

A Lannister, serving as Hand to a Targaryen. 

When Sansa hears the news, she turns the lock in her solar and laughs herself sick. It’s all coming full-circle, by the gods. It’s all going back to where it began.

The Greyjoy rebellion is vanquished once more, and Aeron Greyjoy, damphair of Pyke, is named Lord of the Iron Islands, after a blood-pledge is drawn for loyalty. Stannis Baratheon dies in battle against an army of Unsullied and Direwolf sellswords. Shireen is named Lady of the Stormlands, and Ser Davos, a former smuggler and newly made Lord of House Seaworth, is named her Regent. 

When Jon returns from Storm’s End, there is a new addition to their party - a red-haired priestess named Melisandre, her accent lilting, exotic, her figure voluptuous and perfect. She smiles, and Sansa feels flames lick her spine - an image rises to the forefront of Sansa’s mind, haunting and eeriely clear. _Blood on fresh-fallen snow._

But she pushes the sense of foreboding away, striding to Jon, her mouth in a tense, hard line. He dismounts fluidly, and they crash into each other’s arms with a fierce, unseemly desperation. 

* * *

_She comes with a scream, clenching down on his fingers, bloody crescents under her fingernails, the wounds hidden in his dark curls._

_Jon shifts up, his cock a angry, insistent throb, hot against the soft skin of her hips, as her heart thunders in her ears, gasping from the aftershocks. Jon kisses Sansa, sweet, feathering kisses across her collarbone, up the side of her neck, tugging the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth. Sansa laughs breathlessly at that, turning her face to his, and taking his mouth hard and quick, tongue slipping past his lips to taste herself, wrapping a thigh around his hips with breathtaking confidence, rocking her sensitive cunt against the hard line of his thigh._

_When they break away to breathe, Jon stares at her, shell-shocked, and Sansa ducks her gaze away, hands coming to cover her face, blushing furiously._

_“You filthy girl,” he mutters, pulling away her hands, and taking her mouth again, while she arches underneath him, wet and insatiable. “Where did you learn to do that?”_

_She shrugs, clutching his body to hers, eyes screwing shut as she rubs her hard clit against his hip. “I just-“ she mutters, raking her nails down his back. “I just wanted to.”_

_He groans at that, at her wanting him so plainly, pulling her other leg around his hips. He parts her once again, grasping the base of his cock, and guiding himself in, slow and steady and- oh god. She whimpers at the stretch, and Jon presses apologetic kisses to her temple, slowly sheathing his cock inside her tight, hot grasp. When he reaches her maidenhood he stops, breath coming hard, bracing himself above her. He pulls back, just as slow, kissing her bottom lip once more._

_“This will hurt,” he admits, against her mouth, tasting lemon and wine. “I’m sorry, love.”_

* * *

News of tragedy arrives on the wings of a raven - in the Vale, Lady Lysa, and her son and heir, Robyn Arryn, have both gone missing. Sansa, already burdened with the duties of Warden Regent of Winterfell, and Lady Paramount of the Riverlands, is further named Lady Protector of the Vale. 

She holds half of Westeros in her hand. Half of Daenerys’ kingdom, and the implications of it aren’t lost on either her or Jon. The largest Kingdom of the North, the fertile valleys of Harren and Rivverun, and the impregnable fortresses of the Vale, all held by a girl of ten-and-six. No, the Queen cannot be pleased with this latest development.

Sansa is grim-faced, in the long evenings when she and Jon spend hours poring over tax receipts and scrolls from maesters across the three kingdoms, after long afternoons of negotiations with their most powerful Houses to rebuild the war-torn countryside. 

When news of a royal decree arrives across the Narrow Sea, neither she nor Jon are truly surprised. Queen Daenerys, from her pyramid palace in Meereen, demands her succession to be secured. If Jo- _Jaehaerys_ is to inherit, he will marry, and produce a Targaryen child. He will marry Sansa, of House Stark, and, in time, Queen Daenerys will sail for Westeros and keep the Seven Kingdoms’ peace.

If not, well… 

She has two dragons, yet, and the Second Sons, and the navies of Slaver’s Bay, and six thousand Unsullied. No, this is a royal marriage as necessary as fire and blood. It will be done.

* * *

_“I… I don’t mind,” Sansa whispered back, thighs tightening around his hips, hips twitching up and letting him sink in a little deeper. With a trembling hand, she pushed an errant lock of hair away from his forehead, curling her fingers around the back of his neck, and pulling him in for a deep, soft kiss. “I’m just- I’m so glad it’s you.”_

_“Sansa,” he groaned, dropping his forehead to hers, and sinking into her cunt with slow, steady. She squirmed against the invasion, eyes screwed shut tightly._

_“Gods,” she finally cried, pushing weakly at his sweat-slick shoulders, “I can’t- I- Jon, please, it’s too much-“_

_“Nearly there, my love,” he promised. “Nearly there.” And as her began to move, setting an easy, deliberate rhythm, the pain faded to a pleasurable burn of heat, as she clutched him tighter, each thrust of his hips sending white sparks behind her eyes._

_Please, she was saying, without even realizing it,_ oh, oh gods, yes just there, _as obscenities and praise spilled from his lips into her ears,_ sweet girl, sweet, beautiful love, gods, I could _die_ fucking you, yes, come on, come for me, _his hands roving her body impatiently, stealing kisses, cupping her breasts, biting down on her shoulder. He fucked into her body until she clenched down on him again, her cunt pulsing around his hard cock, her cries muffled against his skin, and he only let himself go then, hips stuttering in their rhythm, coming in her in long, hot surges._

* * *

“Marriage,” she repeated numbly.

“Yes,” Jon confirmed, his voice flat, uninflected. His shoulders were rigidly held, a military stillness to his body where he stood, facing away from her, staring sightlessly through the window. It had grown darker, these past few weeks, early winter snow falling in fat, lazy flakes through Winterfell’s courtyards. 

“Why?” Sansa asked, brow notched, her fingers tangling and untangling restlessly in her lap. watching his silhouette, the broadness of her shoulders, his narrow hips, the tight mold of his breeches over taut, muscled thighs. He wore his hair pulled back from his brow, these days, and sometimes, from the corner of her eye, when Sansa glimpsed Jon, it was almost as if Father had come back home; it sent a painful jolt everytime she realized it wasn’t Father, followed on its heels by overwhelming relief. 

_Jon, Jon, Jon. Gods, I’ve waited a lifetime for you._

Jon laughed, quietly, but he sounded unhappy, and Sansa felt like curling in on herself. “You hold three of her kingdoms. She’s very far away… And the people here love you too well. But Sansa,” he said, quieter now, gentler, as he turned around and walked to where she was seated, taking a knee before her and covering her hands with his. “If you don’t want this, I’ll tell her. She won’t- I’ll manage- I promise, you _won’t_ be forced into another marriage, not as long as I’m-“

“I want to,” Sansa interrupted breathlessly, because she was a  _selfish_ thing, she _was, **truly**_. If she could have him by her side always, for this pretext and no other, she’d take it. She _would_. “As long as I don’t ever have to go to the capital again-“

“You don’t,” he replied, looking up at her again, with melting, dark eyes. “I swear it. The North will be your home, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

She smiled, turning her palms up to hold his hands tighter. “Then I want to, Jon,” she repeated, bending down to brush a kiss on his cheek. “I do."

* * *

_“I- I didn’t know it could be like that,” Sansa whispers, long minutes after they’ve caught their breath, lips moving against the curve of his neck, head pillowed on his arm, their skin sticky with perspiration, goosebumps prickling up her back where an icy draught blows in, from a cracked window._

_“Like what?” Jon rumbles, and Sansa feels the vibrations of his chest shiver up through her open palm, resting over his heart._

_Sansa shrugs, tucking herself tighter against him, nosing at the damp curls behind his ears and hiding a smile. Every part of her body feels languorous and deliciously achy, a long sticky thread of honey and wine curling under her skin. “I’m just… I’m so glad I married you.”_

_He turns to her then, eyes soft with warmth, heavy-lidded when he pulls her on top of him, and brushes soft, easy kisses against her mouth, tacky with the taste of her, the sour-sweet bite of wine lingering on his tongue._

_”Are you?” he asks._

_Sansa stills. Carefully, she pulls away from him, studying his face as if it is something new. “You- you aren’t?”_

_Jon’s eyes widen for a moment, before he chuckles, bleakly. “Bloody hell, sweetheart. Don’t ask me that.”_

* * *

“Have you seen this?” Jon asks one evening, passing her a scroll bearing the trout sigil of House Tully. “News about the Freys.”

Sansa’s mouth tightens in anger. They’ve been at Winterfell barely seven moons now, and between the Baratheons and the Greyjoys and the Lannisters, they’ve yet to take care of that particular issue. “What about them?” Sansa asks, unfurling the scroll with delicate, shaky fingers, anger trembling through her hotter than Rhaegal’s fire.

“They’ve- Well. They’ve been dying?” Jon frowns, as if searching for the right words. “Gods, Sansa, the way it looks like is… Like someone’s hunting them down, in the Riverlands.”

Sansa gapes as she reads the message from the Blackfort’s maester. “ _Hunting_ -“ she repeats incredulously, just as the door to her solar opens, and Winterfell’s new maester shambles in. “My lady,” he croaks, “your grace. Please, please come quickly.”

He shuffles out of the door to make way for them, as Sansa frowns, rising from her seat. “What’s the matter?” she asks, as Rhaegal’s glides past the window behind her, screeching irritably. The maester stumbles, but gestures them towards the Great Hall regardless, saying, “A steward has come from Castle Black, your grace. A Tarly boy, accompanied by their First Ranger. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont is dead. Terrible, terrible things, they say, and I’m inclined to bel-“

“What is it they’re saying, maester?” Sansa cut in, sharply, keeping pace with him, Jon close behind.

“Winter has come, they say, my lady.” The maester takes a deep, fitful breath, and Sansa notes how ashen he’s become, how his hands have balled into fists, the knuckles white with… _fear?_  

“And the _dead_ come with it."

* * *

_Sansa flinches as if she’s been slapped, the warmth burning away in a flash of hurt. “I see,” she replies coldly, gathering the sheets around her, and crawling away from him, only to have Jon wrap a hand around her wrist and jerk her back into his lap - and Sansa is thirteen again, in the godswood, surrounded by summer snow and preparing to say goodbye._

_“What-“ she begins sharply._

_“I_ love _you,” he says forcefully, his features carved in furious, blazing anger. “I’ve loved you,” he repeats, “my whole, damned life-“_

_“No,” Sansa breathes, shaking her head, eyes wide. “No, you don’t, you_ left _me-“_

_“I_ had _to, I told you, I had no_ choice _-“_

_“Yes, you_ did _,” she hisses back, shoving at him, nostrils flared, her breath panicked and irregular. He_ left _, he left her, he left them all, and then everyone_ died _, and he doesn’t get to_ do _this, he doesn’t get to break her heart_ again _-_

_“-you have to believe me,” he continues heedless of her turmoil. “Sansa, my love, my wife, my own-“ He kisses her, cupping her face in his hands, slanting his mouth over hers, and there’s salt in their mouths from her tears now, but there is no way Sansa knows to not want him, to not_ need _him, and so she winds her hands around his neck, clutching his body to hers, as if she can keep him anchored herre with sheer force of her will._

_“I love you,” he says, in between breaths, murmured agaisnt her lips. “You don’t have to love me back,” he says, “but you have to know, I have always-“_

_“I love you too,” she whispers, heart racing in her chest, so fast she can barely breathe. “Jon, Jon, you unbelievable idiot - of course I love you too.”_

* * *

They marry in the godswood, Ghost by her side, Rhaegal lighting up the night sky above them. Rickon gives her away, and when she sees Jon see her, all other thoughts vanish away, of the tensions in Slaver’s Bay, the rumors of Jaime Lannister’s increasing madness from the Westerlands, the whispers of plans of alignment between the Houses of Martell and Tyrell, and the threat beyond the Wall… All of these wink away in a spark of heat, at his slack-jawed, dark-eyed gaze. 

Arya and Bran are still missing, yes, and Mother’s and Robb’s statues stand next to Father’s in the crypts beneath Winterfell, but surely… Surely it isn’t a sin to steal this one moment of happiness? Of family, and hearth, and love? Sansa hopes it isn’t, oh she _hopes_ ; she hopes, and the youngest, sweetest parts of her remember the shelter of the godswood, and send a prayer to the old gods she had once forsaken. 

Let this be alright. Let this be pure. Let this be _hers_.

The bedding ceremony she allows, for it won’t do to deny the lords of three kingdoms their traditions, not now. Not when the peace is so fragile, so carefully, painstakingly wrought. 

Jon is waiting for her, when the lords deposit her, stripped of her wedding finery, in the King’s bedchamber. He's naked, waiting by the hearth, hair tumbling in loose, ruffled curls, the firelight turning his skin the bronze of some strange, Essossi god. He turns when the door is closed, and Sansa hungrily drinks in the sight of him, dark hair across his broad chest, arms rippling with muscle, the shadowy relief of his body in the flickering light. There is a dark trail of hair from his bellybutton leading down to- Sansa swallows and quickly looks away. 

When she meets his eyes once more, he becomes still, tense, the silence stretching between them, fraught and electric. She steps closer, and he mirrors her movement, until they are close enough for Sansa to see the scars that litter her chest, scarred puckers of swords, and the the sharp, white lines of daggers. 

He makes no other move, except to watch her, waiting, a militant restraint holding him back. "Okay then," she says, taking a deep breath, and steeling herself. 

She is Sansa Stark, of Winterfell. This is her _home_. 

This is _their_ home, and Jon will _never_ hurt her.

“Kiss me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID YOU NOTICE HOW I SNUCK ARYA INTO THIS CHAPTER BECAUSE I DID.

**Author's Note:**

> Work title from pre kai ro's "Queen of a New World."  
> Chapter titles from:  
> 1\. Styx, 'Renegade'  
> 2\. Hugo, '99 Problems'  
> 3\. John Mayer, 'Edge of Desire'  
> 4\. Passenger, 'Holes'  
> 5\. blackbear, 'girls like u'  
> 6\. & 7\. Sanders Bohlke, 'The Weight of Us'  
> [Playlist here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8s4ktAbv6SU&list=PLZTQh0Dg3XdbwIx09d9SgKPlTzaZS0UVc)  
> This trope has been written only about 8 billion times before so lol okay I don't make any claims to originality. Also, I've added a link to the one that I sort of skim-read the first chapter of and I borrowed the summary from. Go read it! It's insanely way better than mine, I promise. Hit kudos if you liked it, and thanks for reading!
> 
>  **Blanket Permission:** go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. All I ask is that you let me know, link to me, and let me link back to you. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or message me on tumblr, @dropofrum.


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